Death to digital jukeboxes! Those 50-cents-per-Top-40-single vending machines are proof that digital distribution of music really can be evil—and we ain't talking about LimeWire or BitTorrent. The real jukebox experience is one that lets you browse album covers, offering up every track (at four for a buck, dammit) and reflecting honestly the stripes of whatever bar it occupies. The Triple Rock's long-heralded jukebox is the city's best example of this because it bears a remarkable resemblance to the West Bank club's patronage itself: fun as hell, full of local stars, sorta diverse, mostly punk. On busy nights (like their infamous twofer Tuesdays), the grisly bartenders crank it up, and the queue fills up early. If you get there early enough to get your quarters in, though, you're treated to a banquet of early punk (the Damned), mid-punk (Cro-Mags), new punk (Dillinger Four), and everything in between, plus enough reggae, British heavy metal, new-wave, and hip hop to keep everyone in the place smiling. As one sign in the jukebox reads: "Here's your karaoke—just sing along." Most at the Triple Rock gladly oblige.